Jack brushed a miniature icicle from his nose with his bound hands and stared enviously and the penguins, which ignored him in favour of disappearing through a hole in the ice. They didn't look cold. Neither did Norrington, for that matter, bundled up in a distinctly non-uniform selection of furs—and that was bloody unfair if ever anything was. The man shouldn't even be here. Jack hadn't realised that when the Commodore had vowed to hunt him to the ends of the earth that he'd meant it literally. And now he was freezing, and his captor showed no inclination to drag him back to his ship any time soon—in fact, he rather appeared to be watching the sunset. Jack was in no mood to appreciate it. He should have been delighted at the extended window of escape-opportunity, but... at least the Dauntless would have been warm. The thought crossed his mind, for a split second before he banished it, that maybe Gibbs had been right about failure to dress appropriately for the weather being bad luck. Certainly, the icy wind seemed to be blowing straight through his usual costume. He shivered, and tried to curl into a ball even while standing. Norrington was ignoring him. Jack felt oddly forlorn at the thought—enough so to try and change it. "I'm cold," he said plaintively. "Commodore?" He ventured a glance at the man, to see if he'd been heard, and found Norrington's eyes on him. They looked like ice, too—cool green and indifferent. Then irritated.

"What is it, Sparrow?" And impatient.

"Really, extremely, terribly cold." Jack tried to project sincerity. "Freezing, in fact." He sneezed. It would have been a touch of genius, had he planned it. He hadn't.

The Commodore looked even more impatient, but a trifle concerned as well, the ice in his eyes thawing just a fraction. Jack blinked at him miserably, and sneezed again.

"That is remarkably foolish, even for you, Sparrow," Norrington commented, regarding his clothing scornfully. "I suppose it can't be helped." The Commodore turned him around, pulling the pirate snug against his chest and tucking his head neatly under his chin. Warm. Norrington's arms wrapped around him, holding him securely—he couldn't have moved had he wanted to. He didn't. Warm. This was what warm felt like. Jack leaned back against the Commodore and shook—tiny daggers of pins and needles dancing across his skin as he gradually unfroze. "Mate," he whispered eventually, reverently, "I don't care if you do hang me. Just don't let go." He sounded like he was pleading, and a distant part of him knew it should bother him that he meant it. He squashed it—concentrating instead on not moving and not speaking or even breathing too loud, or anything that might convince Norrington that he wasn't worth holding onto after all.

After a while, the penguins resurfaced, still looking not-cold. Jack favoured them with a benign smile. They were, he decided generously, allowed to be warm, as long as he was too.